


To Heat the Blood

by Gileonnen



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Biting, Fisting, Haurchefant's Animal Rugs, Kinking on Real-Life Power Dynamics, M/M, Mild Sadistic Fantasies, Mulled wine, Sanguine and Phlegmatic Temperaments, Tactical Silverware Arrangements, Unhealthy Bedtimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:13:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24381103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: After strategizing into the early hours of the morning to retake the Stone Vigil, Haurchefant invites Aymeric to spend the night. One thing leads to another.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Haurchefant Greystone
Comments: 4
Kudos: 67





	To Heat the Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ishgard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishgard/gifts).



They huddle over the great map at Camp Dragonhead into the small hours of morning, testing their forces against the Dravanian horde in miniature. Lord Haurchefant sets his carven troops on a dozen gallant, doomed charges up the slopes to the Stone Vigil; each time, Lord Drillemont tempers his enthusiasm, setting up forks and knives like baffles to represent the ruins surrounding the keep. Each time, the charge breaks into a dozen ineffectual streams.

There is no way around it: they cannot take the Vigil in an infantry charge, no matter from whence the main thrust of their force approaches. Aymeric is not inclined to waste their resources needlessly on a doomed assault.

Corentiaux is the first to excuse himself for the night. Yaelle holds out for another bell, smothering yawns behind her hand, until Haurchefant catches her nodding off and gently bundles her out of the war room. Lord Drillemont hangs on longest of all, but at three bells past midnight, he rubs his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Damn me," he mutters. "I would not see the Vigil left in their conniving claws, but I can see no way to prise it out of them. Mayhap the way will seem clearer in the morning."

"Mayhap," Aymeric says. "In any case, we will make no further progress tonight. Let us reconvene on the morrow."

"Will you stay the night?" asks Haurchefant. "The ride back to Whitebrim is long and treacherous. My people can have guest quarters prepared--"

"Nay," answers Drillemont. "I would speak with a few of my trusted soldiers ere we meet again. If sleep does not refresh mine eyes, perhaps their counsel will. Farewell, my lords; we'll batter ourselves against the Vigil again tomorrow."

As Drillemont takes his leave, Aymeric looks over to Haurchefant. His host is still bright-eyed, flushed with good humor; a dozen doomed charges have not at all stifled his zeal. "We might consider other avenues of attack," he says, bending to study Drillemont's maze of knives. His hair screens his face like a curtain, shimmering silver in the lamplight. "If an infantry charge will not serve, perhaps a winged cavalry might surmount the ruins--or we could send sappers ahead of the main unit to--"

"Enough, Lord Haurchefant," Aymeric says, hiding a smile behind his hand. "One would think you mean to remain awake until the Vigil is ours again."

Haurchefant glances up, grinning in answer. "I find myself wakeful," he says simply. "Do you not find a puzzle such as this one invigorating? How to overpower a matchless foe with little and less; how to snatch victory from the sure grasp of defeat--my blood sings at the challenge. Does not yours?"

"My humors run cooler than yours," Aymeric answers. "The Vigil is but one front in our war with Dravania. I look at this map, and I see a thousand other battlefields beyond it. I must calculate not only how to win the Vigil, but how to keep it--and what other fronts must fall, that we might win and keep it."

At that, Haurchefant straightens. The heat in his gaze softens, until only warm compassion remains. He has, Aymeric realizes for the first time, uncommonly kind eyes. "I fear I have kept you awake too long, my Lord Commander," he says. "Come rest a while before my fire. There will be mulled wine and a warm bed, should you wish it."

He does not have Drillemont's excuse to stay. The city is only an aetheryte's journey away, and its streets hold no lurking terrors. He could be home in his own bed in minutes, surrounded by the familiar smells of his linens and the familiar sounds of the city all around him.

It would give him no respite. His mind would tick on in the darkness, turning over the problem of the Stone Vigil until dawn's light crept through the windows.

"Your hospitality is appreciated," Aymeric answers, lowering his chin in the merest sketch of a bow.

"Would it trouble you to share my bed?" asks Haurchefant. "My household must surely be asleep by now, and I fear the guest rooms will be cold for a few bells even were I to wake them. But I promise you, the fire in my hearth is always blazing."

"Not at all. I would be honored," answers Aymeric.

They repair to Haurchefant's chambers, where there is indeed a warm and crackling fire in the hearth. The pelt of some massive beast lies on the flagstones before the fireplace, with a pair of armchairs turned toward the warmth. For a moment, Aymeric simply stands upon the fur rug with his eyes closed and lets the heat of the fire wash over him in waves. He hears the clink of mail--Haurchefant removing his armor, no doubt--and the glassy ring of bottles and jars.

When he opens his eyes, Haurchefant is kneeling before the fire with a small copper pot suspended over the flames. The smell of hot red wine and spices perfumes the air. "A local remedy against sleepless nights," says Haurchefant, when he catches Aymeric looking. "The smallfolk here mull their wine with valerian root. I find it calms my nerves like no other."

"I should scarcely have imagined your nerves needed calming," Aymeric answers. "Never have I seen you out of your element--never flustered in the slightest." He sits to begin working his boots free, then his gloves. The rest of the armor will be trickier without a squire, but he'll manage it somehow.

At first, Haurchefant doesn't answer. He only busies himself with pouring a flagon of wine for each of them, while the firelight picks out the edge of his ribs through the thin fabric of his shirt. When he hands Aymeric his cup, though, Haurchefant's face is serious. "Do not mistake me, my lord," he says. "Some matters shake my heart to its foundations. But when my heart is unquiet, I seek solace in all of the ways that I can."

The first sip of wine nigh burns Aymeric's lips, so he sets his flagon aside and rises to remove his armor. "What ways are those?" he asks.

Haurchefant's lips quirk in a smile. "Good wine. Exertion. A dip in bracing cold water, or a duel with a worthy foe. And other remedies with which I will not trouble your ears."

Aymeric sets his pauldrons aside, glancing away to hide his own smile. "Rumors do reach the city of Lord Haurchefant's prowess in the bedchamber."

"And so, too, do rumors reach Camp Dragonhead of how Lord Commander Aymeric spurns all advances. I suspect those rumors, like mine own, are only half-true."

Aymeric stills, his hands poised to undo the catches of his robe. Stripped of his armor, with Haurchefant still kneeling before him in scarcely more than his smallclothes, Aymeric is suddenly, keenly aware of the erotic charge between them. Of how Haurchefant looks up at him through his soft silver hair, his eyes shining. The fondness and reverence in his expression steal Aymeric's breath away.

"My friend," he says thickly. "Pray do not permit me to mistake your meaning."

Haurchefant climbs to his feet. His warm hands fold over Aymeric's; against their steadiness, Aymeric feels the slight tremor in his own hands all the more acutely. "Be at ease," says Haurchefant. "Should you wish it, I would lay my sword between us as we sleep, that you might fear no unwanted advances. Should you wish it, I would leave you to sleep alone and make my bed before the fire, and account my honor the greater for it."

His thumb sweeps over Aymeric's knuckles, kindling heat in their wake. Haurchefant's breath smells of wine and spices; the livid warmth of his skin feels as though it must scorch Aymeric to a cinder. A flush quickens at Aymeric's throat and rises to his cheeks, and still he cannot make himself drop his gaze. "And should you wish it, my Lord Commander, I would have you test the truth of those rumors, and see whether you find me wanting."

 _Lord Commander_ sends a thrill through him, pleasure and guilt commingled; he recognizes the goad in it, and yet his blood rises in answer all the same.

He is so damnably tired of taking the long view. For once in his life, he wants to hazard all on a single glorious sally--to offer himself flesh and soul to a purpose that may doom him as easily as save him.

He turns his hands in Haurchefant's until they lie clasped in the compass of Haurchefant's palms, curled together like paired shells. "I do not wish to test you," he says, halting, hoarse; it feels as though every word is lodged in his throat.

Haurchefant rises to his toes, brushing a chaste and searing kiss to Aymeric's lips. "But I would like so much to be tested."

That kiss sunders something in Aymeric--some ancient hitch or barricade that has long held him in abeyance. A wild, urgent desire wells up in him, resistless as a river in high spring. He takes Haurchefant's face in both hands and drags him into a kiss, his lips already parted as though to devour, and Haurchefant opens to him with a laugh and invites him in.

For long moments there is nothing but this: the eager sounds that Haurchefant makes at every seeking sweep of Aymeric's tongue and every scrape of teeth. The sure pressure of his lips, and the taste of wine that Aymeric chases dizzyingly deep. The way their breath falls into a rhythm, until they can kiss without parting.

When at last the kiss breaks, Haurchefant's ice-blue eyes have grown wide and dark, and his cheeks are a hectic red that Aymeric can't help but find charming. His breath comes sharp. "You've done this before," Haurchefant says, more teasing than accusatory.

Aymeric can't help smiling. "As you suspected," he answers, "the rumors of my chasteness are only half-true."

Haurchefant laughs and eases Aymeric's robe off of his shoulders. "I begin to think they're not even a quarter true--how would you have me, my Lord Commander?"

It shouldn't strike Aymeric so nearly to hear _Lord Commander_ from Haurchefant's lips, and yet pleasure lances through him all the same. A part of him longs to see Haurchefant kneeling again before him, chasing his own pleasure with Aymeric's hand snarled in his hair--a part of him yearns to bury himself inside Haurchefant's mouth and spend deep within his throat.

He traces the soft line of Haurchefant's ear with his fingertips, until he can cradle the corner of his jaw in one splayed hand. Haurchefant's eyes slide closed at the touch; he cants his head into Aymeric's hand like a hound seeking affection. "I would have you pleased, my friend," Aymeric answers. "Tell me how to please you."

When Haurchefant opens his eyes, there's mischief in them that makes Aymeric ache to his loins. "If you would please me, then I beg you, don't spare me the full force of your passions. I am a dragonslayer, my lord. I'm made of sterner stuff than that."

"You meant every word of it when you asked me to test you," says Aymeric, laughing in delight and bewilderment.

"Forgive me if I spoke too plainly." Haurchefant does not look even slightly sorry.

"Not at all. Not at all. Very well, ser, if that is your wish. Let me try your mettle."

He leans in to mouth at Haurchefant's throat and feels him tilt back his chin in answer. Not surrender, although at first it feels much akin to it--rather, like a swordsman's retreat, it invites him to advance. With one hand to Haurchefant's cheek to hold him still, Aymeric remaps the soft flesh of his neck with teeth and tongue, glorying in the way each bite seems to pierce through Haurchefant like a lightning bolt. He jerks in Aymeric's hands, but never away from him, not even when Aymeric tastes blood mingling with sweat. Then, Haurchefant only lights his hand at the back of Aymeric's neck to hold him there, and Aymeric presses a long, suckling kiss just beneath his jaw.

In their light underclothes, it's impossible not to feel how Haurchefant's cock answers that kiss, nor how his whole body bows to fit the curve of Aymeric's.

He wishes he knew how to ask to go on like this--to ply Haurchefant with bites and kisses until his teeth wring a climax out of him, his cock untouched. But if there is an etiquette for such requests, he has never learned it. "May I ...?" he asks instead, and trails his hand down Haurchefant's flank to rest on the knob of his hip.

Haurchefant grins against Aymeric's jaw. "Please, ser."

He works Haurchefant's breeches open while Haurchefant is busy unlacing his, their hands close and tangling until they can't help laughing at the predicament--but when at last they lie bare to each other, Haurchefant crowds against Aymeric's hips as though he has never known shame. His arse fits perfectly in Aymeric's long-fingered hands; his mouth is against Aymeric's ear, speaking praise and encouragement in between ardent kisses. When Aymeric's fingertips trace the cleft of his arse, Haurchefant shudders and hooks one leg over Aymeric's thigh as though to open himself up. "I have oil," he says, and sways up to kiss Aymeric open-mouthed. "If you'll have me--"

"I begin to suspect that you mean to wear me out," Aymeric chides, but he knows on some deep level that Aymeric isn't the one Haurchefant is trying to wear out. Morning approaches, and with it a return to the war table and its grim calculus. Little wonder Haurchefant would rather exhaust himself and curl up in the warm circle of a friend's arms, rather than spend the night watching phantom armies clash amidst the snow.

This much repletion, Aymeric can give him. He lets Haurchefant go, lets him lower himself to knees and elbows on the bed--admires the smooth bow of his back and the way his thin shirt hangs from his shoulders. When Haurchefant glances over his shoulder, his hair hanging lank over his face, there is challenge in his eyes as much as lust. "Ser," he says, an acknowledgment or a plea.

Aymeric kisses the small of his back, then eases one oil-slick finger into Haurchefant's hole. The warmth of it envelops him immediately--Haurchefant opens easily beneath him, as Aymeric's own arse never has. He gives a soft, caught cry, and perhaps it's the exhaustion or the strange, hot, dreaming intimacy of the moment, but when he hears it, Aymeric would give anything to hear it again.

Two fingers, now, plumbing deep within Haurchefant for the source of that sound, curled and beckoning him toward release. Then a third, and a fourth, opening him up in sure strokes with oil to ease them, until every slight brush of Aymeric's knuckles draws a loud and yearning cry from the very fundament of Haurchefant's body. As Haurchefant pants and shouts beneath his fingers, Aymeric nearly forgets his own pleasure--he forgets that there is anything to him but his hand and how Haurchefant rocks back onto it, still not sated.

When at last the knuckle of his thumb works past the muscle of Haurchefant's hole, the echoing howl of his pleasure makes the spice jars rattle and the logs shift in the fireplace.

Afterward, as dazed and lax as though the climax were his own, Aymeric washes the both of them clean and brings over their wine--now only milk-warm, and bitter with long-steeped spices. "Truly, you are a marvel of resilience," he says, while Haurchefant nestles against his shoulder. "I could never have imagined that you would take so much of me."

"Nor I, that you would give it." Haurchefant clinks their cups together, then drinks his own wine down to the dregs. "Were you satisfied? I fear that in my eagerness to sate myself, I quite forgot my duty to you."

"Not at all. I ... cannot remember a time when I was so satisfied." Setting his flagon down beside the bed, Aymeric pulls back the thick blankets and coverlets and slides beneath them. After a moment, Haurchefant curls up against him, one arm draped over his chest.

Lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of Haurchefant's breath and the warm weight of the covers, Aymeric sinks into a deep and dreamless sleep.

* * *

The weather on the next day is fine, and Lord Drillemont is in infinitely better spirits. He has come with a half-dozen new ideas and a pair of trusted soldiers to help explain them, and they spread out busily around the war table to arrange temporary fortifications and chocobo divisions flying Durendaire's colors.

"A contingent of archers would do much and more to hold down the line here," says Haurchefant, to which Drillemont nods solemnly in agreement. "What say you, Lord Commander?"

For a frozen moment, Aymeric is certain that everyone in the room can see what it does to him to hear Haurchefant say that in such a fond, sanguine tone--but when the blood's finished draining out of his face, he only replies, "As you say, Lord Haurchefant," and hands him a flagon of wine.


End file.
